Pecking Order (24 page)

Every telephone call was listed there, with dates, durations and costs. She looked at the table, saw the recruitment section of the paper below a dirty plate and slid it out. Then she examined the list of numbers called over the past fortnight, searching for any from the job section in front of her. It soon became apparent her friend hadn't rung a single one.

'Zoe,' Clare announced, voice serious. 'What are you doing?'

'I told you. Hot knives. They're a blast.'

'No, I mean with your job search. You haven't called a single company.'

Slowly Zoe raised up a hand and gripped her forehead just below her hairline. She turned her head to Clare, and with her hand held there like a sun visor, opened a pair of heavily bloodshot eyes. In the shadow below her fingers, she squinted at the itemised phone bill Clare was holding up.

'Oh shit,' she mumbled.

'So what's going on?'

She shut her eyes again, 'Can you turn off that lamp. It's too bright in here.'

Clare reached over and switched off the small reading lamp by her side. Now the room was just bathed in the glow from the gas fire and a lava lamp in the corner. As Zoe went to speak a train thundered past, drowning out the noise of her first words.

Once it was past she began talking again, head bowed towards her knees. 'I couldn't face going through it all again.'

'Through what again?'

'The interviews. Trial days. Being sat down in front of a Mac and told to work out some layout with the studio manager stopping every now and again to check over my shoulder. Having everything analysed, discussed. I'm not ready for all that stress again.'

'So you decided just to take me for a ride instead? Doss here, rent-free. Smoke dope all day?'

'No, I meant to ring those numbers. But I ... didn't. I just need some time to get my head together. Then I'll start looking for work again.'

'Zoe, you don't really reckon sitting in here all day is getting your head together? You stay up every night 'til the small hours and then get up after lunch. That's what's really doing your head in. You've got to get a grip. Get back out there, get back in ...' She stopped short of saying 'the running'. She didn't want it to sound like a race. It wasn't what Zoe needed to hear. 'Get back to using a Mac. It's what you're good at, what you trained for.'

Zoe brought her knees up to her chin and hugged her shins. 'I suppose so.'

Gently Clare added, 'I'm due to be out of this flat once term officially ends next week.'

Zoe pursed her lips, ‘What if you get that job in Patricia's department? Surely you'll be able to stay on then?'

Clare felt a pang of anger. 'If I get that job they won't let me stay here. I was lucky to get this flat in the first place - it's meant for undergraduate single mums with kids. Not lecturers or researchers. Besides, if I'm earning a wage I'd prefer to pay for somewhere that's not like living at Waterloo junction.'

Zoe nodded. 'Yeah, you're right. And you're right about the job hunting. I'll get the paper tomorrow.'

Clare stood up and went into the kitchen. She searched for a clean glass, but Zoe hadn't washed up. After rinsing one out, she opened the fridge, looking for some milk. The carton inside was empty. She filled the glass with water and went back into the living room. 'It's the way you lied to me, Zoe. That's really pissed me off.'

Her friend didn't look round. 'I'm sorry mate. I didn't mean to. Things just sort of ... slid.'

Clare stopped at the hearth and looked at the blackened knives lying there. 'You should lay off the gear, too. It's no good for you if you're feeling bad in the first place.'

Zoe nodded meekly and Clare went into her room and shut the door.

Once her light was off Zoe muttered, 'Downer,' to herself. Then she reached over for the packet of Rizlas on the table.

Chapter 38

'Evening Agent White,' Eric said tersely as Rubble got into the car beside him.

Sensing anxiety in the older man, Rubble replied a little warily, 'Evening Agent Orange.' He pulled on the pair of rubber gloves that were waiting for him.

'Tonight's operation should be very straightforward,' Eric continued briskly, his sentences clipped and tense. 'The client has supplied me with a key. She lives in quite a large house, and sleeps in the master bedroom. You'll find it at the top of the stairs. She assured me that she'll be sleeping soundly for our arrival. Don't be put off by her age. She's no spring chicken, but she's not as old as the other two you put to sleep.'

'Why does she want finishing off then?' asked Rubble.

‘Some sort of disease. To do with her bones I think. They can't cure it.'

Rubble nodded, studying the plastic rear of the tax disc holder on Eric's windscreen. His eyes shifted to the parking permit just above it; he could see the faint outline of the crest showing through. 'Does the Government pay for your car and stuff like that?' he asked pointing at the corner of the windscreen.

Eric looked at where his thick finger was directed and thought he was pointing at the tax disc. 'Remember Agent White; we work on a need-to-know basis only. And you don't need to know that,' he snapped.

They set off back to the motorway, and were soon cruising at just below seventy. As Eric drove along he kept fidgeting in his seat and glancing across at his passenger. Rubble kept his eyes fixed on the road ahead and his mouth shut.

Eventually Eric said, 'How are you finding the work so far, Agent White?'

Rubble glanced at him uncertainly, 'Enjoying it.'

'You can be honest Agent White. It's not unusual to have ... negative emotions.'

'Negative?'

‘Yes. Perhaps feelings of remorse?' Rubble looked at him blankly.

'Guilt. You know ... um, doubts. About taking ... about taking another human being's life.'

Rubble shook his head.

'You never find yourself dwelling on the missions you've completed? '

Thinking he was being tested, Rubble kept his answer short. 'No.'

‘What about now. Any feelings of nervousness at this moment?'

'No.'

They drove along in silence, the inside of the car growing ever more hot and claustrophobic in Eric's mind. When they reached the turn off he had unbuttoned the top of his shirt and wound the window down a little. They slowed to a halt at a set off traffic lights leading to a small roundabout and, even though there was no other traffic in sight, the lights stubbornly remained on red. Irritated, Eric glanced at his rear-view mirror and shut his eyes.

On the road behind him he saw an image of the bodies of Bert and Edith lying there. Bert's nearer the car, Edith's further up the road, almost swallowed by the darkness. Ahead he saw Patricia standing in his path. Just a simple obstacle to get past and then he would be secure. Once she was behind him, he could move forward - put more and more distance between himself and the memories of all three.

He opened his eyes and revved the engine, willing the lights to change. The red glow suffused the inside of the car, catching on the white rubber stretched over his knuckles where they gripped the steering wheel tight. The smell of exhaust fumes drifted into the vehicle and he remembered getting a mouthful from Patricia's BMW outside the biology department.

The orange light came on as he forced himself to think of his father and how retirement had destroyed him. Then both bulbs died and the one below glowed green.

There could be no going back now. He let his foot off the clutch and moved forward, driving across the roundabout and along narrow lanes. The countryside bordering the road was almost entirely farmland, interspersed with occasional driveways that curled away across landscaped grounds to large houses.

After a few minutes Eric changed down through the gears and rolled to a stop beside a dense row of conifers. A sign at the top of the driveway said, Otter's Pool Lodge. Eric focused on the small gaps between the branches, making sure the house beyond them was completely dark. 'OK, this is it.' He reached below his seat and handed Rubble a loaded syringe.

Rubble placed it carefully in the pocket of his overalls.

Next, Eric handed him a large shiny key and a small pocket torch. 'Now, proceed across the lawn and round the back of the house. Open the kitchen door and go through into the hallway. You'll see the stairs to your left. At the top, a door will be straight in front of you. That's where she is. As I said before, she should be fast asleep. But if she does wake up confused, you are to restrain her and give her the injection anyway. Now, I've got several other operations in the area tonight, so I won't be able to pick you up for a couple of hours. Once you've completed your operation, wait for me in the garden. There's not much traffic out here, so you'll know it's me when I park at this spot. Everything clear?'

'Can I climb up a tree? Wait for you up in the branches?'

'Yes, that's a good idea. Wait for me up a tree, it's a very safe place to hide.'

Rubble got out of the car and gently closed the door. Eric put the car into first gear and, keeping his revs right down, slowly eased away. At the next turning he doubled back to the city, heading for the all-night garage near his house. He pulled up to the side of the pumps, dropped his rubber gloves into a bin full of them from the fore court's dispenser and walked over to the window hatch. Taking in the notice telling him he was on CCTV, he ordered a pint of milk and a box of paracetamol. The young man inside picked a small bottle of pills off the shelf behind him then set off round the counter to get the milk from an open-fronted fridge. Craning his neck to see the image on the screen by the till, Eric realised the tall thin man staring at a window was himself. It reminded him of the footage he'd seen on
Crime Stoppers
when the presenter asked for help in identifying a particular suspect. Fearfully, he wondered if what he was looking at would ever end up on national television as part of a documentary.

The attendant returned, asking for payment before he pushed the items through. Eric drove back to his house and, once in his kitchen, knocked back a couple of pills with a gulp of water straight from the tap. Then he made himself a cup of cocoa, sat down at the table and tried to concentrate on that day's
Guardian
.

The back of Patricia's house was covered in a thick layer of ivy and Rubble had some trouble finding the small oak door. The key turned smoothly in the lock and it swung open with a slight creak. In the corner of the kitchen a fridge-freezer juddered to life as the thermostat triggered the cold air mechanism inside. Next to it the green numbers of an oven clock glowed. Rubble looked at the kitchen table and the bag thrown on to it. A bunch of keys lay carelessly splayed on the wooden surface. Testing the floor with his foot, he guessed it was solid wood, and he walked carefully across it into the hall. To his left stairs stretched upwards, lit by moonlight shining in from a round window set deeply into the thick wall. He climbed up them, a massive beam in the ceiling not far above his head. He stopped outside the half-open bedroom door and listened. In the gloom he could see a double bed, quilt ruffled on one side. A thin strip of light shone from under a door in the corner of the room. Frowning, he crept across the deep pile carpet to the bed and, once he was standing by it, saw that it was empty. A dark, wet patch was visible across the pillow and sheet. Puzzled, he noticed a large cooking pot on the carpet next to the bedside table.

Slowly he turned his head and looked at the glow coming from beneath the door on the opposite side of the room. Silently he walked round the bed, careful to avoid the high-heeled shoes on the floor, one toppled over on its side. At the door he bowed his head and brought his ear to within millimetres of the wood. On the other side a tap dripped.

Rubble reached out and slowly turned the handle. The door swung partly inwards without a sound and, inch-by-inch, he opened it further. The first thing he could see was a towel rail on the wall just inside. As the door opened wider he could see a sink in the corner of the room and next to that a toilet. On the floor beside it was a wicker basket piled high with a jumble of toilet rolls. The next thing that came into view was a freestanding shelf unit, crowded with bottles and jars. The door was half-open when he saw the partly wet nightdress crumpled on the carpet. He edged the door open further and now he could see an empty shower unit in the opposite corner of the room. Next was the end of a bath. And in it, a pair of feet. They lay below the surface of the water, motionless. His eyes narrowed and he looked at the lilac painted nails, waiting for movement. When nothing happened he stepped forwards and opened the door fully. As the hinges reached their limit they let out a long, high-pitched creak. He craned his neck round the door; saw a pair of submerged knees, thighs, crossed hands over a stomach, a pair of slack breasts. Finally he looked at Patricia Du Rey's face, eyes shut below the water, lips tinged blue and hair like tendrils of an aquatic plant floating about her head.

The tap continued dripping and the overflow let out a single glug as water drained into it. Rubble stepped fully into the bathroom and examined her more closely. The flesh all over her body was

laced by an intricate network of wrinkles. Crouching down by the bath, he reached into the water. It was chilly. He lifted out a cold hand. Its surface was as deeply furrowed as that of a raisin. He let it fall back and looked at her face. Trapped in the underside of each nostril was a silver sphere. He pinched her nose, squeezing out the two bubbles. They floated up a couple of inches and popped at the surface.

Back down in the kitchen his stomach rumbled and he remembered what Agent Orange had said about not picking him up for several hours. He walked over to the fridge in the corner of the room and opened the door. The shelves were stacked with strange things. A jar containing lumps of square shaped pale cheese in a thick oil. Another with green berry-like objects with small red things shoved into their hollow middles. A small bottle full of a watery brown liquid. He smelt the neck and recoiled at the sharp aroma of dead fish. The door was lined with little shelves and the top one held a row of eggs. Something he recognised. He plucked four from the rack and slipped them into the front pouch of his overalls, alongside the unused syringe.